


One More Cup Of Coffee

by blue_girl



Series: Frank Castle Just Wants to Sell Coffee, Dammit! [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 03:58:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6454792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_girl/pseuds/blue_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lot of Frank's customers express their annoyance at the unpredictable schedule and abandon him in search of a Starbucks but he somehow manages to acquire a small crowd of regulars, which irritates him for some reason. He vows never to learn their names.</p>
<p>He accidentally learns their coffee orders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One Bad Idea

**Author's Note:**

> I have accidentally started writing fanfiction because:  
> 1.I am a sucker for coffee shop AUs  
> 2.I JUST WANT EVERYONE TO BE FRIENDS OK?

Frank Castle leaves the military with a purple heart, a bullet wound in his skull and no idea what to do next.

He goes back home because it’s what you’re supposed to do, and because his great uncle died a few days before his release from hospital and remarkably Frank is one of the only ones together enough to prepare a eulogy.

After the funeral is over he finds he doesn’t really like being around people so he wanders the city, thankfully New Yorkers aren’t friendly. On one of his aimless strolls far from his neighbourhood he stumbles across a “For Sale” on a run down-looking coffee shop.

He stops.

For the first time in his life he has some real money ( _Thanks, Uncle Stan_ ).

Frank mulls over the bad idea forming in his head. Well, it’s not like he’s got any better ones.

 

*             *             *

 

The shop’s close enough to the University that Frank can open it at odd hours and still make a decent profit from frazzled-looking students who leave their projects till the last minute or obsessive workaholics who need to get their fix before the Library opens its doors. So he serves coffee late nights when can’t face going up to his apartment to stare numbly at his ceiling fan, and in the early mornings when he’s given up on sleep entirely, and sometimes he flips the closed sign at midday to catch a couple of hours shut eye on the old couch in the storage room.

A lot of customers express their annoyance at the unpredictable schedule and abandon him in search of a Starbucks but he somehow manages to acquire a small crowd of regulars, which irritates him for some reason. He vows never to learn their names.

He accidentally learns their coffee orders.

The blind law student that comes in on his first morning drinks double expressos and always tips rather generously for someone with holes in his sweater.

His classmate with the questionable hair usually orders some hazelnut/caramel/gingerbread thing with far too little shame.

The tall Greek girl whose shoes look like they cost more than his last car has triple expressos, probably because she likes competing with lawyer boy.

An ever-exhausted looking nursing student orders tea and comes up to the counter for more so often Frank just gives her the whole pot to pour her own refills.

The perky, athletic blonde whose face looks vaguely familiar has a soy latte or green tea depending on the day.

She drags her friend ( _sister?_ ) along one day who just grunts, “Coffee.”

(“ _Yeah,” Frank replies,_ “ _Which coffee?_ ” “ _Fuckin’ coffee. Black. Coffee. I am too hung over for this_.” _(She might be Frank’s favourite. Not that he likes any of them of course._ ))

A wide eyed, willowy girl wanders in one evening, too many files precariously balanced in her arms and spreads them out on a table in the corner. She orders cappuccinos, always smiling and sounding almost apologetic, and when Frank first replies, “Yes ma’am” she gives him a curious, appraising look that makes him want to duck his head. Or maybe stand to attention.

She seems to be the first one to figure out the café’s erratic timetable (which is strange because Frank usually can’t tell when the bad days are coming himself) because she’s there almost every day, working quietly at her corner table.

The rest of them start coming in a more frequent pattern soon after.

Frank grumbles and idly wonders how he can get rid of them.

 

*             *             *

Frank is on his third day without sleep. 

He hadn’t opened the shop at all yesterday but when lying awake on his lumpy mattress had done him no good he’d come back down to keep himself busy. He’s just starting to drift off when a loud, persistent banging starts.

Frank resolves to kill whoever is responsible. Later. When he’s had some sleep.

But the banging doesn’t stop and he hears a voice shout, “I know you’re in there!”

Frank lets out an animalistic snarl and stomps to unlock the shop door.

Expensive Shoes is standing in front of him tapping her heel and looking impatient.

“Oh good,” she says. “I need coffee.”

He gapes at her slightly.

“We’re CLOSED. There’s a Starbucks two blocks down from here. _They_ have coffee.” He growls. “Ma’am.” He adds as an afterthought.

The woman looks slightly amused at his protestations.

“Yes, but they don’t have _my_ coffee.”

Frank gets his supplies from an old Russian guy who’s a friend of an army buddy because it’s cheap and good, but mostly because the guy doesn’t chat and Frank hates chatty salespeople. ( _Frank hates all chatty people._ ) The coffee’s some European brand, he wonders if it’s from Greece, the packaging looks ambiguously posh and foreign like this girl’s accent.

While he’s pondering this, Expensive Shoes takes advantage of his half-asleep state and ducks under his arm and into the café.

“Hey!” he calls out, but most of his anger has dissipated, he’s just too tired.

She surveys him thoughtfully and seems to take pity on him.

“I’ll make it myself, you can go back and rest.”

This is a woman clearly used to getting her own way and that would normally bring out Frank’s petty, obstinate side but right now he just wants to sleep so he grumbles something under his breath and heads back to the couch.

He’s asleep almost before he’s horizontal.

Frank wakes up some time later to a dull flurry off noise. Is he being robbed? _Fine_ , he thinks, _I’ll deal with it later_ , and turns over covering his head with a cushion.

The next time he wakes it’s quiet and dark.

He gets to his feet and hazily wanders to the front.

Expensive Shoes is standing behind the counter, counting out change.

“Quite a lucrative afternoon,” she remarks without looking up, as if this is a conversation they have every day.

“Wha?” Franks brain hasn’t quite caught up to his current state of consciousness yet.

“I’m saying I made us a lot of money,” She repeats looking at him as if he was slow. “The law boys had some assignment due so they were wolfing down coffee. Then there was a busload of German tourists and I charmed them into staying for quite a few drinks. The quiet girl in the corner was here till I closed up, she was asking about you by the way, but I had to kick her out because I didn’t know when you would wake up and I have a party to get to.”

“I-” Frank tried to digest this _, Lawyers… German tourists… the girl was asking about him?_

“The rude one was adding whiskey from her hip flask, but I didn’t stop her since I don’t know your policy on that sort of thing. And I can’t really blame her for drinking when she has to sit and listen to blondie plan an interview with some boring councilman on her student radio show.”

“I really don’t care-”

“That’s what I thought.”

“You can’t just-” Frank starts, exasperated. “You can’t just barge in and start running people’s coffee shops! Without asking!”

The girl smiles loftily.

“I find it’s always better to ask for forgiveness than permission, but for the record I’m asking for neither. You need the help; we can work out my shifts tomorrow.”

And with that she shrugs on a sleek red coat and sails out of the shop.

Frank decides vaguely that he’s probably dreaming all this, but she’s back behind the counter tomorrow with a matching apron that he’s no idea how she acquired. ( _He resolutely doesn’t wonder why someone who can afford Gucci heels would want to work in a grubby little coffee shop, because, he tells himself, he doesn’t care about these people’s lives.)_

He writes _Elektra_ on her pay check and is annoyed at himself for knowing.

***             *             ***

 

The corner table is covered in various newspaper scraps and photocopies and intimidatingly large legal-looking documents most late-afternoons or evenings, the girl pouring over them, mouth set in determination.

The two law students join her fairly often now for animated discussions and the occasional bought of raucous laughter that makes Frank grit his teeth and clean mugs a little too aggressively.

Tonight it is just her. She’s tackling some thick file that’s been making her sigh and run her hand through her long fair hair in frustration every few minutes. Not that Frank is paying any attention.

The next time she sighs, she leans back, looking defeated.

When she approaches the counter he starts making another cappuccino before she asks.

“Thanks,” she murmurs appreciatively after taking her first sip but she doesn’t go back to her seat. Instead she perches on a bar stool and fixes him with big inquisitive eyes. ( _Frank does_ not _notice how startlingly blue those eyes are._ )

“You were in the military?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

“Iraq or Afghanistan?”

“Can’t say, ma’am.” It’s not strictly true, he’s allowed to talk about most of it but he’s found this response is usually the quickest way to get someone to stop asking questions. ( _Although for some reason Frank’s not entirely sure he wants her to._ )

She gazes absentmindedly at the scar on his forehead and Frank starts to feel hot and self-conscious. He’s grown out the buzz cut a little but his hair is still way too short to cover it. Usually a hard stare from Frank is enough to stop the person gaping but his less than sunny demeanour has never seemed to have the desired effect on this girl. ( _What effect does he want to have on her? He doesn’t ask himself._ )

“You a dog person or a cat person?”

Frank is caught slightly off guard by the sudden change in topic and he almost smiles before he remembers that’s not something he does.

“Uh, Dogs.”

“Mm,” the girl agrees sipping her coffee again thoughtfully. “I love dogs, they are kind and loyal and clever, it’s like they can reflect the best parts of a person.”

“I had a dog growing up, taught him to open the fridge, pissed my old man off no end, worth it though.” Frank doesn’t know why he’s volunteering this information.

The girl smiles softly at him. She opens her mouth but at that moment the door to the shop opens and the other blonde walks in shaking an umbrella and raises her hand to the girl at the counter.

Frank turns round and busies himself with the steam wands.

He feels sharp eyes on his back for a while before he hears her return to her seat.

 

***             *             ***

 

Frank’s wiping down tables after close one night when he hears soft panting and straightens up. A few feet to his left, staring up at him happily, is a dog.

Frank does a double take and then turns a full 360. The shop is dark and empty.

The dog is still there.

He takes a step towards the dog and it flinches back slightly, still panting happily, but somewhat wary. Frank crouches down and slowly extends a hand.

“C’mon boy, I don’t bite.”

After a moment, the dog cautiously moves towards him and licks his outstretched fingers. It looks like a Pitbull? Staffie maybe? In the dim light of the shop it’s hard to see, but there seem to be scars running along the animals back. Frank scratches behind its ears and feels a line of hard skin under is collar.

Frank sighs.

“How did you get in here?”

 

He finds the ( _maybe_ ) sisters in a heated, whispered argument in the alley by the side door.

“What,” he growls, startling them. “Is this?”

The blonde ( _Trish_ , his brain irritatingly supplies) looks nervous and guilty but whiskey girl ( _Jessica_ ) just raises an eyebrow and says, “A dog.”

Frank gives her an unimpressed look.

“It’s your dog!” Trish chimes in and lifts her arms up in a _surprise!_ motion.

Frank looks even less impressed.

“Where’s his real owner?”

“The ER,” Trish Responds, looking defiant. Jessica looks mildly smug. _Jesus, what kind of customers had Frank had the misfortune of getting involved with?_

“The E-“

“He was using Max for fighting. Like for bets. For sport,” Trish spits out the word and then continuous in a rush, “We had to take him with us and our landlord won’t let us have pets, we’ve apparently done enough property damage-” Frank notices Jessica’s sudden interest in the alley wall “-and the shelters around here put so-called dangerous dogs down without even giving them a chance, I just did an item on it on my show, and Max isn’t dangerous he’s scared, and Karen says you like dogs. So… We brought food for him?” she finishes weekly.

Frank looks between the two, pushing down hard on the warm feeling of pride welling up at their heroic (albeit violent sounding) endeavours.

“Fine,” He grunts as grumpily as he can manage and stomps back inside.

Max sleeps at the foot of his bed and growls at loud noises. ( _Frank won’t admit to anyone sleep comes slightly easier after that._ )

 

*             *             *

Bothering Frank seems to be Corner Table Girl’s strategy for destressing whenever she isn’t getting anywhere with her work. He tries to be annoyed by this but he’s barely fooling himself.

She comes to sit by the counter and idly scratches Max under his chin while she asks Frank questions, he doesn’t know why he keeps answering. ( _When she’d appeared the day after the dog had arrived and seen him snoozing on a battered old armchair her face had lit up into a bright, sunny smile and Frank had missed the mug he was pouring into by a good few inches. Not that those two things were related of course_.)

“Where did you grow up?”

“Queens.”

“Siblings?”

“No Ma’am”

“What was your dog’s name?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“I’m a journalist,” she shoots back. “Or, I want to be anyway.”

“Yeah, why’s that?” Frank is rather surprised to hear the words escape from his mouth. He isn’t one for asking questions ( _unless the question is “Cream and sugar?_ ”) because he isn’t interested in his customers lives. ( _If a small voice inside his head suggests that he wanted to stretch out the time before she goes back to her seat then Frank resolutely ignores it because he is far too sane to listen to head voices._ )

The girl sits back and seems to consider his question seriously regarding Frank carefully as if his words had surprised her too. She bites at her lower lip and her brow furrows in little delicate lines. Frank tries not to stare ( _And absolutely doesn’t think about reaching out and smoothing them out with the rough pad of his thumb_.)

“Because,” she starts slowly, startling Frank out of his daze. “Because the truth is important. Not just some easy to spin narrative that will rile people up to sell papers. The real truth. Too often the public is deceived or… or distracted from seeing who the real villains are and there are people getting demonized in the press and no one is prepared to actually learn anything about them. Because I think people are good-” Frank gives a derisive snort. “-or at least everybody has good in them. Everybody’s got a past, they’ve all got a story that tells how they ended up here now, it’s just waiting for somebody to find it. I can do that. I can help.”

Her passion is evident; Frank imagines he can see it burning behind those blue eyes, daring him to contradict her. He doesn’t envy anyone who tries to cross her, he wouldn’t dare.

Max barks suddenly, annoyed that the girl has stopped petting him and she seems to snap out of her fervour, looking down embarrassed.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to rant at you, I’m sure you’re not interested in an ethics lecture, I just- It’s been a long week and I’m just so tired and stressed and stiff and sitting on that couch isn’t exactly helping.”

“Something wrong with the couch?” Frank grunts, instead of voicing the twenty other questions about how she's sleeping and her week and her life.

“Nonono, there’s nothing wrong with the couch! I love that couch, and that corner is quiet and warm, it’s a great place to work” Her concern at not insulting his shitty little coffee shop would be endearing, Frank supposes, were he the type of person to find things endearing. “I just have a bad back and I shouldn’t sit without better support, it’s my fault, really. It’s from hunching over all the time and speaking of, I should really get back to these parish records.”

She backs away from the counter with a weak smile, leaving Frank to his thoughts. Which he steadfastly continues to ignore.

 

“Do the couches need more cushions?” Frank remarks, in a not at all forced casual tone, to Elektra the next morning.

She raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow at him and he gets the distinct impression that she knows far too much about the origin of his question. Not that there is anything to know.

She buys new cushions her next day off and places most of them on the couch in the corner.

Frank definitely needs to fire her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear, this fluff and nonsense is turning out way longer than I was prepared for at 3am so I decided to split it up. I have the other chapter planned out and partially written so I think it'll be about the same length.  
> (Also massive props to all you amazing writers out there I've been reading for years, you make this look way easier than it is.)


	2. One Idea More

Being in pain makes Frank even grumpier than usual. He can deal with pain, sure. He’s dealt with _a lot_ of pain, he’s not going to bitch and moan about it. But it will make him more likely to stare daggers at the oblivious law students that frequent his coffee shop.

For some reason Frank has an easier time disliking these two than the rest of his customers. Probably because they are going to become rich asshole lawyers. _(Definitely nothing to do with the fact they’ve been monopolising all of Corner Table Girl’s time recently_ )

Their tendency to have loud debates about Law and Morality and Justice and other such issues on days when he has particularly bad stress headaches isn’t helping their case either. In fact, Frank isn’t entirely sure that these debates aren’t _giving_ him the headaches to begin with. ( _It’s certainly better to think that’s the reason than worry about brain injuries and scar tissue and complications. There is no way he’s going back to that fucking hospital._ )

“We have a responsibility to people to protect them.”

“ _I_ have a responsibility to my landlord, to pay rent.”

“Well if it’s a matter of the ends justify the means then why not just sell drugs or prostitute yourself?”

“Hey you joke, but I have thought about it. You can’t see how handsome I am. The ladies just can’t get enough of my moves.”

Two tables over, the nursing student snorts into her drink and then covers it with a coughing fit that Frank thinks is disappointingly unconvincing for someone in the medical profession.

“Keep track of the score for me while I’m out, will you?” says a voice very close to Frank’s left ear. He doesn’t flinch in surprise because he is a grown ass man and because Elektra’s worked here long enough that he is (almost) used to her ninja like appearances. She’s graceful in a way that seems a little bit deadly. _(“You do ballet growing up?” he’d once asked. She’d given him a withering look and replied “Martial arts.”)_

He doesn’t ask, but she flips though her notebook to a page with some kind of table drawn on it and hands it to him.

“I’ve been tallying up who wins their little arguments. I think I might give the winner a reward at the end of term.”

He _definitely_ doesn’t ask.

The two men are still arguing loudly by the time she’s disappeared out the door. Frank closes his eyes, rubs his temples and silently prays that a meteor will hit the shop and end his suffering. But unfortunately when he opens them again he’s still there, watching Questionable Hair gesture emphatically with a spoon at his classmate to emphasize a point.

“All I’m saying is, I have to look out for myself, and you! All this self-sacrifice is going to be the death of you.”

“And I’m saying that we need to use our power and our knowledge to help people. I know you believe that too, why else have we been spending our only free evenings helping Karen with these Roxxon documents rather than going out with Marci and her friends? And why has Karen been spending so much time on that when you know she likes to come here to relax, at least some of the time. This city _needs_ good people like that.”

Questionable Hair throws up his hands in surrender.

“Fine, I concede your point. Just promise me we’re not going to let people who come to our new law firm pay their bill with bushels of apples.”

 

At the end of the shift Frank takes out Elektra’s notebook and, sighing, writes down a number 2 under the name _Foggy_ and a 3 underneath _Matt_.

He grudgingly admits to himself that for lawyers they might not be that bad. _For lawyers_.

***             *             ***

 “I got my first front page story!”

Frank looks up from his notebook to see Corner Table Girl striding towards him, her face alive with delight. The morning rush had petered out so Frank was using this time to do inventory. He hadn’t expected to see her, she never came in this early, so he stops a moment just taking her in before he realises she’s still talking.

“-didn’t know if they were going to want it but they told me last night. And, well, it’s bottom of the front page, but still! What do you think?”

She’s beaming at him and either Frank’s old war wound is acting up or he must be more sleep deprived than he thought because his brain has temporarily forgotten how to form a reply.

“Huh,” Frank says and mentally winces. ( _Great response. That’s not even a word_.)

Her expression falters and she starts babbling slightly.

“I mean, it’s not that much of a big deal. It’s not even the main thing I’ve been investigating mostly; I’ve been talking to Elektra about this corporation her dad used to have business with? And Matt and Foggy have been helping me with all the legal jargon from my freedom of information requests but it kind of feels like we’re getting nowhere. This just felt like the first good thing that’s happened in a while. But, you know, it’s just a student newspaper and it’s a nothing story really, I mean who’s going to actually care if the Dean is accused of nepotism?”

“No, it’s great,” he can hear the earnestness in his tone. He inwardly curses himself for sounding stupid and sappy but the girl breaks out into a wide, beautiful smile. ( _Frank’s obviously addled brain runs through a list of terrible things that he would do in order to make her smile like that again before he can stop himself._ )

He grabs a mug, reminding himself that he’s actually here to do a job, but she reaches out her hand to stop him.

“I’ll take mine to go actually, thanks. I’m late for class, I just came to tell you about my story. And to get coffee. Obviously. Coffee. You know, because I stayed up late writing it.”

She rubs the back of her neck, looking embarrassed and Frank feels embarrassed too, and pleased. He can’t quite work out why so instead he drops his eyes and reaches for a takeaway cup.

“Right. One cappuccino to go coming up ma’am.”

 

He happens to feel like taking a long stroll before he opens up the next day and somehow comes back with a copy of the University paper.

When Elektra sees it lying beside the expresso machine she laughs and pats his cheek pityingly, ignoring the death stare he gives her.

“You’re fired.” he grumbles at her, but she just laughs harder.

 

***             *             ***

Frank is angry. (More angry than he usually is, ok?) It’s 11pm on a Wednesday and the coffee shop is buzzing with activity because it’s finals week. Frank had abandoned his usual haphazard scheduling and actually _planned_ to have the shop open late every night for the ragged, red-eyed students that stumble in. He’d written up a timetable and everything, but here he is, 11pm Wednesday night and Elektra is nowhere to be seen. ( _His other regulars are conspicuous in their absence too, but that’s fine, they don’t need to be here. Frank certainly doesn’t_ want _them here. It only affects him because he’s still technically Elektra’s boss_.)

Well what did he expect? Hiring some rich, entitled, party girl who felt like slumming it for a bit? Of course she was going to flake on him eventually. Frank’s brain reminds him that this isn’t true and it isn’t fair but he’s trying really hard to hold on to his anger and ignore that gut-twisting feeling bubbling underneath. ( _Concern? Worry? Fear?_ )

He slams down a latte on the counter, spilling most of it and making the small, mousy girl in front of him jump about a foot in the air.

“Sorry bout that ma’am. I’ll get you another.”

As he is finishing re-making the drink, he hears a familiar voice say “Tea, please. And maybe you should have something too, you look like you could probably use it.”

Frank looks up to see the nursing student shrugging her messenger bag off her shoulder and collapsing onto a barstool.

“I’m fine thank you, ma’am,” he replies starting her drink.

She gives him a look.

“Really? You look pretty worn out to me, and I know worn out like the back of my hand.”

“Just a busy shift,” Frank says and then mutters under his breath, “Busier than I was counting on.”

He slides the teapot and her mug across to her and she closes her eyes to inhale the warmth before looking up at him again.

“Are you sure you don’t want to get yourself a cup of something?”

Something in her tone gives Frank pause, it’s a little too cheerful for the look in her eyes. He’s definitely getting the nurse vibe right now because this reminds him of the voice the hospital staff would use when they were about to tell him his recovery wasn’t going as well as they’d hoped.

He doesn’t reply, just leans on the counter and narrows his eyes at her slightly.

She sighs.

“Look, Elektra and the others were looking into to something tonight, I don’t know what, but she… got hurt and that’s why she isn’t here. Hey-”

Frank pushes himself back off the counter and looks wildly around for something. His jacket. Or maybe his gun. At his feet he feels Max’s hackles raise and he growls softly at whatever invisible enemy they’re facing.

“Hey,” the nurse repeats to him in a calm, commanding tone. “She’s going to be fine, everyone is OK. They brought her to me - I’m guessing because wherever she got hurt was somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be, there was a lot of talk about trespass law - but I insisted we go to the ER. It looks like she has a couple of broken ribs and they want to keep her for observation but there isn’t going to be any lasting damage.”

Frank relaxes a fraction and runs a hand through his short hair exhaling shakily.

“Matt’s staying with her at the hospital. The rest of them all wanted to come here to let you know what was happening but I decided that might be a little overwhelming. Jess and Trish dropped me off on the way back to their place and Foggy is taking Karen home, she was pretty upset.”

Frank files this away as another piece of painful information that he can do shit all about. ( _But that he’ll obsess over none the less_.)

“What the fuck did they think they were doing?”

“God only knows.”

“They are all idiots!”

“Yeah,” She agrees ruefully. “You don’t have to tell me.”

Frank regards the women in front of him, her face scrunched into the same mixture of exasperation and concern that he can feel mirrored on his own. He feels a tiny bit grateful that he has someone to sit here and commiserate with. She’s definitely the only sane one in the group, anyway.

“Listen, I need to head out but I’m going to give you my number.”

Frank involuntarily glances over at the corner of the shop.

“Oh, uh, I don’t uh-”

She cuts him off with an “Oh, please.” And her expression says _really?_ Something tells Frank that she might be a little more in tune with his feelings than he’s prepared to be himself.

“It’s for you to call if you want updates on her condition. You know, assuming you want to keep up this whole “I don’t care about anyone” grumpy barista act you’ve had going on and you don’t want her to know you were worried.”

Frank stares at her and opens his mouth to say something but then closes it and instead fishes his phone out of his pocket. He types _Claire_ before handing it to her to fill in her number.

As she’s leaving she gives Frank a tired smile and then he is left standing alone, maybe starting to revaluate… things.

 

*             *             *

 

It’s been about three and a half hours since Claire had left the shop. Frank had thought about closing up early. He’d thought about yelling at all the cheerful, chattering students to get the hell out. He’d thought about throwing some mugs at their hastily retreating figures and watching them smash satisfyingly to the ground.

In the end, although Frank had enjoyed entertaining these ideas, the rational part of him concludes that if he closed the shop he would be left again staring at his ceiling fan, brain buzzing, unable to sleep for a different reason than usual. So he keeps himself busy and serves up coffee until the last few stragglers stagger out into the night.

He is in the process of locking the front door when he sees a figure pacing slightly under a streetlamp outside. It’s his Corner Table Girl.

She sees him looking and raises her hand in an uncertain greeting before heading towards him.

“I didn’t know if you were still here,” she explains and there’s an apology in her voice but Frank doesn’t think this is why.

“I thought you went home.”

“I did.” She replies, rubbing her arm. “Couldn’t sleep, you know?”

_Yeah,_ Frank thinks. _He knows._

“I can make one more cup of coffee tonight,” he says and steps back inside his shop.

 

They are sitting on her corner couch drinking their coffees and, while the silence isn’t uncomfortable, Frank can feel a tension in the air that’s thicker than usual and he knows there is something the girl wants to say.

He waits. Resisting the urge to tuck a strand of fair hair behind the girl’s ear, barely. _Barely._

She glances at him and then down at her mug.

She takes a deep breath.

“It’s my fault Elektra was hurt,” the words rush out of her mouth with such pain that Frank can almost feel her ache.

 “This corporation I’ve been looking into, Roxxon? I was chasing a story about unlawful firing practices but I accidentally stumbled onto something much bigger. I thought it was fraud to start off with but it turned into something way more sinister and dangerous, I still don’t think we’ve uncovered even the tip of iceberg. I even tried taking it to the police when I knew what I was looking at but they weren’t interested, the detective didn’t even glance at the file I gave him, so I just continued investigating. I hit a bit of a dead end a few weeks ago and all I could think was, I’ve got to actually get in to their headquarters to look around for myself.”

_Jesus,_ Frank thinks _. How could this- Of all the monumentally bad ideas- is this girl insane?_

“The others – they wouldn’t let me do it on my own, I let them convince me they should help. It was all going fine to start off with. Jessica had the guards’ schedule worked out, but they must have changed it because one minute everything’s quiet and the next there are guys with guns everywhere.”

Franks hand tightens around his mug and feels something rise in his chest, a violent, protective growl. _These reckless fucking kids_.

“Matt threw something – I don’t even know how he knew where they were - but it distracted them long enough for us to get away. We were going to make it out fine but one of the guards managed to clip Elektra’s ankle and she- she fell. I thought I knew what I was getting into. I never should have let them come with me. I never should have gone there in the first place. It was really stupid.”

“ _Yeah,_ it was.”

The girl looks for a moment like she might start to cry. Frank wants to take it back, explain his anger is not at her, it’s at Roxxon and the police and mostly himself for not being there to protect her. Before he has time to open his mouth the girl is steeling herself and rising to her feet.

“I know,” she murmurs, looking down at the floor. “You have every right to be angry with me. I just- I came to tell you I really am sorry. I should go.”

“Karen,” he calls after her. It’s the first time he’s said her name, even to himself but he suddenly realizes he wasn’t ever trying not to remember it. He’d filed it away the first time he’d heard it, along with all the other bits of information he’s learnt about her.

The sound that she makes when she’s frustrated.  The triumphant smile that means she’s figured something out. That when she’s concentrating on something it becomes the only thing in the world. That she’s clever, and loyal, and kind.

That she cares about his shabby little coffee shop. That when she listens to him it matters to her what he says. That when something good happens to her, she runs to tell him about it.

_That when the thing she is concentrating on is him, it’s the most exhilarated and terrified he’s ever felt._

The realisation of all this comes crashing down on him like a wave. He feels lightheaded, like he’s drowning in it.

_Well, Fuck._

He’s brought back to earth by bright blue eyes, looking up at him expectantly through wet lashes. His hand is curved around her side blocking her path, fingers lightly grazing the exposed skin beneath her shirt.

His mind is screaming, _say something!_ but for the millionth time since he met her, he can’t think of the words he needs.

In fact, right now Frank’s brain is conspicuously vacant of all but that one stupid thought.

So he gives himself over to his most frequent bad idea, and kisses her.

 

A while later when they break apart, both slightly breathless, she asks

“What took you so long?”

“You ask too many questions,” he murmurs happily against her cheek.

“I’m a journalist,” she replies smiling.

He kisses her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness I had way too much fun writing this. (And you guys were so lovely and complimentary, you got me over here blushing.)
> 
> I am really tempted to turn this into a series at some point because I feel like these morons are definitely going to go digging again and get themselves (and Frank) into more trouble. And Frank’s emotional ineptitude is probably going to get him (and everyone else) into more trouble. I also feel like there is probably a bar across the street called Luke’s.


End file.
